


there's a tether that's keeping me there

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I-- wait, really?' Andrew is standing in a hotel room. The AC is turned up just a little too high, and his sweater is just a little too thin. 'But I hadn't even met him yet.'</p>
<p>The lady on the other end of the phone sounds apologetic. 'Mr Keith is... unnaccustomed to rookies.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a tether that's keeping me there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brandonsaad (createadisaster)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/gifts).



> so for my birthday jenna was an angel who wrote me saad/sharp kneeling fic, and in it she mentioned that shawsy would kneel for duncs. hilariously, this was already written by that point. so that's the kind of people we are. just so you know.
> 
> title from chvrches 'tether'
> 
> okay i'm well aware that this fic has an audience of one, okay. i know. don't judge me.
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](toewses.tumblr.com) for more random ass hawks being thrown together!

'I-- wait, really?' Andrew is standing in a hotel room. The AC is turned up just a little too high, and his sweater is just a little too thin. 'But I hadn't even met him yet.'

The lady on the other end of the phone sounds apologetic. 'Mr Keith is... unnaccustomed to rookies.'

Andrew hums. 'So, what do I do?'

'We're considering our options,' she tells him. 'Just go to morning skate tomorrow, and we'll give you a call when we find someone suitable.'

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, and she hangs up.

He texts Saader, who's somewhere in the hotel, in his own oversized room, probably. _My guy bailed. When u meeting urs?_

_Tomorrow_ , Saader says. _Why'd he bail?_

_No clue. What room are u in?_

_1215_ , Saader texts him. Andrew throws a hat on and toes back into his shoes, tucking his key card into his back pocket before leaving.

-

Morning skate is terrifying.

The jersey in his stall is terrifying.

Duncan Keith is especially terrifying.

Eighty percent of Andrew's attention is focused on not falling over in front of Jonathan Toews/the entire team, and the other twenty is trying to work out if Keith is a legitimate crazy person. He has these dark grey eyes that go straight through you, and he keeps looking at Andrew, but saying nothing.

Andrew doesn't think he's seen him blink yet.

Saader seems to be hitting it off with his vet, Sharp; they're chatting about something while they wait in line for the drill.

Keith doesn't speak to Andrew the entire time they're on the ice together. He rubs him out along the glass once by accident, and Andrew thinks he mumbles an apology before skating off.

-

Andrew is an assist short of a Gordie Howe hat trick in his NHL debut. He scores his first goal on his first shot, and there's still blood on his face.

The guys are loud in the locker room after, throwing things at him and whooping. Kane decides they're going out to celebrate, despite the loss.

Andrew decides not to remind him that he's only twenty.

-

Because this is Andrew's life, and therefore as difficult as it's possible to get, he ends up crammed in a booth next to Keith. Keith doesn’t blink ever, apparently, just keeps staring down at his drink with those ridiculously grey eyes.

'I was supposed to kneel for you,' Andrew says, leaning over to speak into his ear. Keith jumps a little.

'I know,' he says eventually, looking up and over at Andrew.

'So why didn't I?' Andrew blames his semi-drunken state on that question.

Keith is still watching him. 'You don't want to kneel for me, rookie. Trust me.' He finishes his beer and clambers out of the booth to the bar, where Seabrook is attempting to get the waitress' number.

-

The game against the Avs is a shitshow.

Andrew plays thirteen minutes and has exactly one shot on goal to show for his efforts.

A shutout at home is exactly as shitty in the NHL as it is anywhere else.

The locker room is tightly controlled rage. No one speaks.

He rips his jersey tugging it off. He already broke a stick on his way off the ice. He hates losing, hates feeling like the loss was his fault.

He catches Keith's eye across the room. In the stall next to him, Leddy is already on his knees next to Seabrook, head ducked. Andrew can see the tension in his spine from here. He must have played twice the minutes Andrew did.

Keith is watching him, blank. He gets up from unlacing his skates and turns around, pulls his underarmour off.

-

They drop another one at home, win two, and go on the road.

Andrew scores the only goal for the Hawks until the final minute of regulation. They lose in overtime anyway.

The locker room is less tense, and a couple of guys pat him on the back on their way past, murmuring about how well he played. He still feels a little bit like his skin is too tight.

‘You can't win em all,’ Saader says, quiet. ‘And you can't win all by yourself anyway. Give yourself some credit.’

Sharp touches Saader on the shoulder when he walks past. Andrew still doesn't have anyone to kneel for.

-

He ends up standing in front of Keith's hotel room door after the game.

Keith is a little rumpled when he opens it, messy hair, sweats hanging low on his hips. There's a red line across his face from the crease of a pillow. 'I'm sorry,' Andrew starts. 'It's late, but--'

'What's up, rookie?' Keith doesn't look hostile. He looks... Concerned, actually.

'I need to kneel.'

Keith's eyes flash with alarm, just for a second. 'I told you, you don't want--'

'Please,' Andrew says. Keith looks at him, and steps aside, helplessly.

His room is oddly tidy. Andrew was expecting more mess. He knows what hockey players are like, after all.

'I've never had a rookie,' Keith says. He spreads his hands. 'I wouldn't know what to do, I don't know how it works.'

Andrew takes a breath and steps over to the bed, stands facing it, and drops to his knees. 'Try,' he says, hollow.

Keith is completely silent. Andrew's hands are folded in his lap. He ducks his head and closes his eyes. He hears Keith moving, hears the groan of the mattress as he sits on the edge of the bed.

'You can... touch me,' Andrew says, stilted, and flushes red. He doesn't open his eyes.

Keith traces along the blush on his cheekbones with a finger, moves round to the shell of his ear, before he runs a surprisingly careful hand through Andrew's hair.

Andrew counts his breaths as Keith settles a hand on the back of his neck.

It's too quiet.

Andrew starts talking, just about the game, a long list of all the things he did wrong. When he's done, he switches to the good things in the game. He talks about his goal and gets a huff of laughter from Keith. He talks about the team, how he never thought he'd make it, how much fun it is. He mentions how terrifying Keith is offhand, and Keith tugs his hair until Andrew looks up.

'You think I'm scary?'

Andrew looks at him, and Keith is grinning. He remembers hearing one of the guys call him No Teeth Keith in the locker room last week, remembers hearing about him losing seven teeth in the playoffs a couple of years ago.

‘You know, I can’t tell which teeth are real and which ones aren’t,’ Andrew says.

It shocks a laugh out of Keith, who throws his head back. He’s a lot less scary, all of a sudden. More human. Andrew shuffles in closer on his knees and wraps a hand around Keith’s ankle. It’s surprisingly delicate.

Keith’s hand settles back on his head. ‘You wanna keep talking?’ he asks.

Andrew shakes his head, leans his cheek against Keith’s thigh. ‘Nah. I think I’m good.’

Andrew dozes off counting the jumps of Keith’s pulse ticking against his hand.

He shakes him awake about an hour later, gentle. He coaxes Andrew to his feet and and walks him to the door. Andrew knows he has a really dumb smile on his face.

‘Can we do this again?’ he asks.

Keith looks hesitant. ‘Maybe,’ he hedges. ‘I told you, I’m not--’

‘I trust you,’ Andrew says, surprises himself a little.

He can’t figure out the expression on Keith’s face, so he just thanks him, and leaves.

Saader is napping when he lets himself back into their room. Andrew lets him sleep.

-

Andrew gets the game winner next game against San Jose.

Saader gets him in a headlock in the locker room and Leddy tickles him until he cries, but he gets to wear the belt, and Keith grips the back of his neck loosely, shakes him a little on his way past. ‘Good job, rookie,’ he says. Andrew grins at him brightly.

-

He starts calling him Duncs because everyone else does, and he feels weird calling him Keith.

He hasn’t knelt for him again since the first time, but the team wins another two games in a row, and Andrew gets his first multi point game against Buffalo. He’s happy. He doesn’t need to kneel when he’s doing well, that’s not what it’s for.

-

The team drop nine in a row.

They get shut out by fucking _Phoenix_ , and Andrew gets a fighting major about ninety seconds in, spends the rest of the game on a hair trigger. It’s a wonder he makes it through the rest of the game without another penalty.

Duncs catches him after the first period, hooks a hand into the collar of his jersey. ‘Keep it together, mutt,’ he says, low in Andrew’s ear.

Andrew almost growls at him, shrugs his hand off. Duncs looks as murderous as he feels.

After the game, Andrew’s slamming around the locker room, and throwing stuff in his stall. Duncs corners him again, grips the collar of his shirt and tugs it. ‘Come to my room when we get back to the hotel.’

Andrew glares. ‘No.’

‘Andrew.’ Duncs’ tone is not suggesting that it’s in Andrew’s favour to argue. He scowls anyway.

‘I’m not kneeling after _that_ ,’ he says. Duncs just shakes him a little and lets go, stalking off across the room, tugging his elbow pads off as he goes.

-

Saader gets a phone call an hour after they get back to their room. He looks guilty when he slinks out, but he won’t say anything when Andrew asks where he’s going. Andrew sulks on his own for ten minutes before there’s a knock on the door.

He considers not opening, but the knocking gets louder and louder, and so he stalks over and wrenches it open before someone calls security.

Duncs is wearing shorts and a hoody, toque shoved low over his forehead.

‘What,’ Andrew says. He doesn’t move aside to let Duncs in, but he pushes past anyway, pulls his toque off and drops it on the desk, toes his shoes off and leaves them neatly against the wall.

He sits on the side of the bed, legs spread, just a little.

‘I’m not kneeling,’ Andrew says. He shuts the door, and stands in the middle of the room, looking at Duncs.

‘We both know it’ll make you feel better,’ Duncs says.

‘You can’t make me kneel,’ Andrew says, and something flashes in Duncs’ eyes.

He stands up, takes a step towards Andrew. Andrew suddenly realises just how much bigger Duncs is than him. Andrew stands his ground and glares.

Duncs grabs at the hair on the back of Andrew’s skull hard enough to hurt, and tugs his head backwards until his chin is tilted up. Andrew sets his jaw and keeps meeting Duncs’ gaze.

‘You need this,’ Duncs says. ‘Let me give you what you need.’

‘I don’t need it,’ Andrew says, trying to pull away. Duncs’ grip tightens. ‘I _don’t_ ,’ he repeats. Duncs’ eyes are hard and unforgiving and so, so grey.

‘Kneel,’ he says, and his other hand is on Andrew’s shoulder, thumb pressing into the divot of his collarbone, pushing him down.

‘Fuck you,’ Andrew says, tries to put all the certainty he doesn’t feel into it. It comes out shaky.

Duncs shakes the back of his neck, like he’s an unruly puppy. It just makes Andrew angrier, and he tries to pull away again. ‘Andrew,’ Duncs says.

Andrew twists his head away. He has one hand wrapped tight around Duncs’ free wrist, can feel his pulse jump.

‘Kneel,’ Duncs says again, and he’s gripping so hard there are tears sparking in the corners of Andrew’s eyes, but he doesn’t sound cold anymore. He sounds almost like he doesn’t know what else to say.

Andrew resists for another second, and then folds. He exhales when his knees hit the ground, and Duncs lets go of his hair, combs through it instead.

Duncs backs away, sits on the edge of the bed. His legs are a little spread again, hands on his knees, unthreatening. Andrew shuffles forward. He’s staring at the mustard coloured carpet. There’s a stain, mostly hidden by where the bedspread hits the ground. Duncs is carding through his hair again, slowly, evenly.

‘No one blames you for fighting,’ he says. ‘You were defending your teammate.’

Andrew doesn’t say anything to that, and Duncs falls into silence.

‘I played like shit,’ Andrew says eventually. There’s a clock ticking somewhere, and he wants to smash it.

‘Maybe,’ Duncs says. ‘We all did.’

Andrew hums at that, and starts talking about the game. Anything to cover up the ticking of the clock.

-

He wakes up on the bed, with his head in Duncs’ lap. Duncs is typing something on his phone, and he glances down when Andrew shifts.

‘Time’s it?’ Andrew mumbles, turning to push his face into Duncs’ belly. His collarbone is digging into the jut of Duncs’ hip. ‘You’re too pointy,’ he complains. Duncs’ body shakes with a laugh.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘It’s late. I woke you up the first time you fell asleep and you told me to fuck off and then curled up on top of me.’

Andrew opens one eye and peers up at him. ‘That does sound like me,’ he agrees, and sits up.

His hair is all spiked on one side, where it’s been pressed against Duncs’ thigh, he can feel it standing on end.

‘Sorry,’ he says suddenly.

Duncs cocks his head to look at him. Andrew shrugs. ‘For falling asleep on you?’

Something in Duncs’ face changes, and he shrugs back. ‘It happens.’

Andrew hums, tries to flatten his hair.

‘Last night,’ Duncs starts. For the first time, he refuses to look at Andrew. ‘Was that...’ he trails off. He looks unsure.

Andrew chews on his lower lip. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I think--’ he pauses. ‘I think I needed it.’

‘I didn’t want to fight you,’ Duncs says.

‘I think that’s the part I needed,’ Andrew admits.

‘Oh,’ Duncs says, surprised, and then, ‘Actually, that makes a lot of sense.’

Andrew punches him lightly in the thigh, and then climbs off the bed. ‘I’m gonna... head back to my room.’

Duncs nods, mute.

‘Thanks,’ Andrew says, hand on the doorknob. Duncs nods again, and Andrew leaves.

-

It doesn’t happen often.

Andrew kneels when he needs to, and Duncs gets better and better at knowing when Andrew wants to fight and when he’s just being obstinate.

Andrew goes up and down from Rockford to Chicago when Carbomb gets back. He never talks to Duncs when he’s not in Chicago.

-

When he is in Chicago, he starts noticing Duncs more and more. Which is. Odd.

Andrew’s never really made it a secret that he picks up guys as well as girls, but he’s never really thought of hockey players as his type.

Duncs doesn’t wear a lot of clothes in his hotel room, is usually just in sweats or basketball shorts when he answers the door. It’s... distracting, for Andrew. He spends a lot of time gazing at the line of Duncs’ hips when he’s on his knees.

Andrew does what he always does. Accepts it, moves on. He keeps noticing Duncs, but it’s not like he’s ever going to act on it, so it doesn’t matter.

-

He gets his last call up just before the playoffs start, kneels for Duncs a couple of hours before the first game. He talks a lot about the game, about how practice went that morning. He rests his cheek against Duncs’ thigh, and keeps stealing glances up at him when he thinks Duncs isn’t looking. Duncs is stroking the pad of his thumb across Andrew’s pulse point, just enough pressure that he knows it’s there.

After an hour, Duncs taps him on the neck, and he stands up, stretching the kinks out of his spine. One of his knees clicks, and he pulls a face.

‘How you feeling?’ Duncs asks him. He’s already dressed in his suit. Andrew shrugs.

‘It’s the playoffs,’ he says. Duncs looks like he understands.

His phone alarm goes off, harsh. Andrew jumps. ‘Better get your suit on, rookie,’ Duncs says, grinning. ‘We have a game to win.’

-

They don’t win.

It sucks, but it happens.

They move on to the next game.

-

Andrew gets tossed from the game for charging the Phoenix goalie. It’s bullshit, and he breaks his helmet throwing it at a wall in the locker room. He showers, gets dressed, and leaves the arena before any of the other guys get off the ice.

He has a key for Duncs’ room. He’s already on his knees when Duncs gets back.

‘We won,’ Duncs says, in the doorway.

‘No thanks to me,’ Andrew spits.

Duncs doesn’t say anything to that. He takes his tie off, hangs his suit jacket up, unlaces his shoes and leaves them tumbled in the corner. Andrew leans into his touch when he sits on the edge of the bed.

‘They’re gonna suspend me,’ Andrew says. ‘Q’s gonna bench me forever.’

Duncs thumb is pressed into the corner of Andrew’s mouth, pressing down lightly. His hand is cradling the edge of Andrew’s jaw, where he has a bruise just coming up.

‘It was a dumb move,’ Duncs says. Andrew flinches. ‘You’re not going to do it again though.’ It’s not a question. Andrew doesn’t answer.

It’s the first time Andrew’s knelt for Duncs in complete silence.

-

They lose game six.

It’s Andrew’s first game back after the suspension, and he feels off-kilter, like he’s forgotten how to play.

They get shut out, and Andrew’s upset, sure, but some of the other guys are devastated. Duncs won’t talk to anyone. He scowls into his stall like it’s the reason they lost, and he snaps at Seabs when he puts a hand on his back, meant to be comforting. He’s one of the first out of the room.

Andrew gets Duncs’ address from Sharpy via Saader, and follows.

Duncs won’t open the door at first, but Andrew knocks loud enough that the neighbours start threatening to call the cops, and Duncs yanks the door open. He’s already changed out of his suit into shorts and an old Michigan State t-shirt.

‘Not tonight, mutt,’ he says, and tries to shut the door again. Andrew sticks his foot in the gap. ‘I can’t.’

‘I don’t need it,’ Andrew says, and means it.

Duncs looks at him. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Because I thought maybe you would.’

Duncs lets the door swing open in shock, and Andrew steps inside quickly.

‘I don’t need you to kneel for me,’ Duncs says, following Andrew into the living room. It’s a nice living room, all browns and creams, big wide windows.

‘Okay,’ Andrew says, and drops down onto the couch.

Duncs looks like hell. There are a couple of open beer bottles on the table, empty. Andrew helps himself to the single full one, takes a long swallow. ‘Are we getting drunk?’ he asks.

‘I was,’ Duncs says darkly, disappears into the kitchen and comes out with another beer. He twists it open bare handed and throws the cap on the table.

Andrew ends up pressed into Duncs’ side on the couch. He talks about nothing for a while, tells Duncs stories about him and his brothers when they were kids, and then just lapses into silence. He finished his beer a while ago.

Duncs is really warm. Andrew’s never noticed before, but the heat is radiating off his skin, through his clothes. Andrew presses closer. His head is a little thick with the first beer he’s had in months. His tolerance has gone to shit after a full season of pro hockey, and he leans into Duncs’ shoulder, tipping his head back.

Duncs turns to look at him. His eyes are so grey, Andrew thinks, and then says it. Duncs mouth opens a little, like he’s going to say something, but he’s silent.

‘Can I kiss you?’ Andrew asks, realises what he said, and flushes. ‘Um.’

Duncs swipes his tongue over his lower lip, and kisses him, bringing up one hand to cradle his jaw, pushing him back into the couch. He’s a good kisser, slow, thorough. Andrew fists one hand in his shirt.

‘This is a bad idea,’ Duncs says, pulling away. He looks like he’s twisted awkwardly around to reach Andrew’s lips.

Andrew reaches for him, shifts around until he’s straddling Duncs’ hips on the couch. ‘Can I kneel for you?’ he asks, ignoring Duncs’ protest to press a row of kisses along the sharp edge of his jaw.

‘I...’ Duncs says. He looks a little shellshocked. His hands have settled on Andrew’s hips, thumbs digging in slightly. ‘Okay.’

Andrew slides off his lap to the floor, settles to his knees. He nudges Duncs’ legs open and presses a kiss to the bare skin on the side of his knee, just above a bruise. He glances up, and sees that Duncs is starting to tent the thin fabric of his shorts. He grins up at him.

Duncs is just watching him. He reaches out and pushes his thumb past Andrew’s lips. He nips at the tip of it, and watches Duncs’ face change, ever so slightly. He shifts down on the sofa and pulls his thumb out of Andrew’s mouth, slides his fingers under the already low waistband.

Duncs’ dick is more slender than he’d imagined, looks almost delicate next to the rest of him. Andrew wraps one hand around the base of it and jacks it experimentally. Duncs’ eyes go hot and dark.

Andrew smirks, and wraps his lips around the head, sinking down slowly. Duncs gets his hands in Andrew’s hair and grips tight, holding his head still. Andrew smirks around his dick easily, and hollows his cheeks, sucks hard on the head. Duncs hisses out a, ‘Fuck,’ long and low, and loosens his grip enough for Andrew to be able to move.

His tolerance is probably for shit too, and Andrew’s good at sucking dick, knows he is, and it’s not long before Duncs is tugging at his hair. ‘Gonna come,’ he says, voice tight, a little high pitched, and he pulls Andrew off before coming, striping his jaw and cheeks.

Andrew licks at his lower lip and pushes his fingers through the mess on his chin. He grins up again. ‘Feel better?’ His voice is scratchy, and it makes Duncs smile, just a bit.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Get up here.’

Andrew’s not really anything more than half-hard, and when he tumbles into Duncs’ lap and Duncs gets his hand between his legs, he looks up at Andrew, confused. ‘Wasn’t about me,’ Andrew says, ducking to kiss him again.

He tugs on Duncs’ lower lip with his teeth before sliding off his lap, padding into the kitchen to wash his face and retrieve the last two beers in the fridge.

‘Can we do that again?’ he asks, curling back onto the sofa with Duncs. He’s pulled his shorts back up, and is stretched out across the length of it.

Duncs makes a rumbly sound in his chest. ‘Maybe.’

Andrew thinks for a second.

‘Can I keep kneeling for you?’

‘Sure, rookie,’ Duncs says. ‘I don’t like sharing, anyway.’

Andrew presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, shy all of a sudden. ‘Don’t worry, me neither.’

 


End file.
